


Prissy Pubescent Sisters

by turbo_geek



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:27:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29838099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turbo_geek/pseuds/turbo_geek
Summary: She insists on calling him old; he remembers when she was so, so small.





	Prissy Pubescent Sisters

He wakes up just as the sun starts to slant through the windows of the kitchen. Another night spent slumped over the paperwork on the table – he stretches, pops his neck, shuffles off to freshen up. 

Thank God it’s Saturday.

He’s shaving, grimacing at the dark bruises under his eyes, when the bathroom door creaks open and the teenager shuffles in. Her hair sticks up in a massive cowlick on the left side of her head. He tries to stifle a snigger; she smacks his shoulder and hip-checks him away from the sink.

He yelps a protest and she sticks out her tongue, because he’s spent too much time in front of the mirror again and she needs to get ready to hang out with her friends.

He’s grumbling about prissy pubescent sisters, because he remembers when she was so small, small enough where he had to hold her hand and walk in half-steps because she couldn’t keep up.

That was a long time ago.

He’s frying up two eggs and a slice of bacon when she comes skidding out, nearly ramming into the kitchen table with her new phone in hand. He pretends he’s not snooping while his eyes strain to see the picture of some popular kid staring back on the screen. He doesn’t approve – how can anyone _see_ with bangs like _that_?

She’s busy tapping away at a group chat when he places the plate of bacon and eggs in front of her, a cup of black coffee for himself. He checks discreetly – the paperwork is safely tucked away in his bag leaning against the table leg. He breathes a sigh of relief. When he looks back at the table, he yells as she dumps three spoonfuls of sugar and far too much milk into _his_ coffee. She takes a sip and giggles at him.

He glowers and steals her bacon.

Ten minutes later, she’s grumpily scrubbing at the sticky coffee spilled on the tiles and part of the wall while he’s grumpily frying more bacon. He mutters under his breath, decrying the state of his household in increasingly ridiculous metaphors until he hears his sister snort with laughter. Breakfast is a short affair after that, with her slamming half a cup of orange juice like a shot and him trying to inhale a new cup of coffee so she won’t be late.

She wants him to take his motorcycle so she can look cool in front of her friends. He says he refuses to change out of his old gym shorts, so unless she wants her friends to see his gross old-man legs this early in the morning—

She cringes so hard that he can’t stop laughing even as she shoves him headfirst into the sensible four-door hatchback and huffily buckles herself in. 

He knows that she’s pretty and popular, that she has someone she wants to impress. He thinks it’s _adorable_ , so he rolls down the windows to let in the summer breeze and to let out the awful singing voice he saves for these specific occasions. He doesn’t know any of the songs on the radio anymore – OLD, his sister screams at him – but he assures her that that won’t stop him. He watches her pull up her sweater’s hood and tug the strings so tight that only the tip of her nose is showing.

He snorts so hard he chokes on the lyrics.

He’s barely parked when she’s leaping out the door, trying to look inconspicuous as he shouts after her to have fun, be careful, don’t do anything your big bro wouldn’t do. She discreetly flips her finger at him and he can’t help but feel a little proud as he pulls out of the parking lot and towards home.

The sun is high enough where it isn’t golden anymore when he shuffles back into the kitchen in the silent house. He stretches again, pops stiff joints in his neck, arms, legs, back. He’s tired when he sits and pulls the paperwork out of the bag he’d hidden them in. 

One more cup of coffee, horribly black and bitter, to brace himself for what he knows is already there, printed on paper. Irrefutable. Unavoidable.

He bites his lip, makes the calculations. Wishes he had a different pair of pants to wear at home, wondering if he should sell the sleek motorcycle of the old days, because the old  
days are long and gone and these days are full of different things that are much more important.

His phone, an old brick from nearly a decade ago, vibrates loud against the carefully painted-over scratches of the kitchen table. He flips it open, checks the text – DO YOU WANT GUMMY WORMS? it asks. The emojis are incompatible with the old model, showing up as empty boxes.

He smiles, carefully taps out a message: press the mno button one-two, one-two-three; press out t-h-a-n-k-s, comma, b-r-a-t, and a number three, because he’s not hunting for the other half to text a heart. 

She’d think he’s getting soft, and he’s got an image to uphold, after all.


End file.
